


Branded

by towardsmorning



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-15
Updated: 2010-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:09:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/towardsmorning/pseuds/towardsmorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(<i>Prompt: John is kidnapped to be used as leverage. In front of every police officer, Sherlock's self-control snaps.</i>)</p><p>He can't pretend his informants were reliable on the state of his heart any more, because his heart is currently branded and owned by Moriarty and on display for all of Scotland Yard and very obviously <em>existing.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Branded

The first clue comes on John's blog. A photograph- one that's blurry, out of focus. Not Moriarty's _personal_ handiwork then. It must be a grunt, it's someone who's clueless about technology, but they can make out the blood and the bruises well enough for the point to be made. Sherlock feels a muscle in his cheek tighten at the sight but pushes down, pushes inwards, focuses.

He knows Donovan is glaring at him as he does it, knows she's judging his lack of reaction. _Will caring about him help save him?_ He won't make that mistake. Not with John, not for anyone, because he _will not_ lose John.

*

Three hours later they get a video clip. It's a little clearer than the photo, in a different location, and there's more blood.

A white-hot brand is involved at the end of it all, and at the moment of contact Sherlock feels something very cold and sharp hit him. It takes a moment to realise this is not something physical, literal, tangible.

He takes a slow, quiet breath and aligns his attention to the details of the video. If he looks at it close up, he won't have to notice the whole. The way John is suffering some kind of PTSD related flashback or the way he's screaming, for example.

Lestrade is looking at him quietly out the corner of his eye. Sherlock ignores that too.

*

The third time, it's a phone call. He expects Moriarty, but that would be far too simple.

This time his technique of focusing in on details doesn't work. There's nothing but the sound of harsh breathing and hissing _to_ focus on. There's nothing but John, and Sherlock wants desperately to ask something that will let John direct them to him in a way that won't trigger a sniper's shot, but his mind has been smoothly wiped blank and white and useless.

He has wished before, in very dark moments, that he could switch his mind off. He has no idea why. It's awful.

The world's off its axis, tilting like the worst kind of high. No, wait. He's sat down, that's all, slumped to the side a little. When had he sat down? Details. Details.

John is breathing quickly. The pace is forced in its evenness. He's aware, then, not knocked out. That's...

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but the noise that comes out is unidentifiable as any kind of speech.

The others are looking at him by this point. He hates this, this shouldn't be happening. Sherlock Holmes doesn't do _this_ but he especially does not do it in front of others. Donovan is looking at him hard and clear, and he doesn't want her pity or understanding, he doesn't want her to suddenly decide he's a fellow member of the human race.

The phone cuts out abruptly. Sherlock stays sat and stares at the phone, like some twisted parody of a teenager's vision of romance. He still can't focus and that means he can't work out if that was the final call or not. Just as planned, he supposes.

So, he stays, and he waits.

*

He stays there for a long time before crumpling. It's abrupt and total, like there's a vacuum in the room and his body can't hold itself together any more. The need to throw something surfaces, so he does. A mug. A paperweight. A keyboard.

It's just Lestrade in with him now, and the other man stays as neutral as possible, grabs his wrists and forces Sherlock to look at him and does all those things he probably got taught from a handbook (and Sherlock is the emotionally stunted one, really?)

Sherlock still needs to break something, because his eyes hurt and he can't talk through his throat's betrayal and because John is never coming back, perhaps, and because that is unacceptable.

Lestrade's wrists serve that purpose fine.

*

The last call finally comes. About halfway through being restrained, Sherlock realises this was what Moriarty had wanted all along, to strip him bare and remove the comfort of illusion from him. He can't pretend his informants were reliable on the state of his heart any more, because his heart is currently branded and owned by Moriarty and on display for all of Scotland Yard and very obviously _existing._

He doesn't even bother to hold his voice steady as he listens to the proposed meeting point. It's abroad. Switzerland. Good. He can cope with somewhere away from people who have seen him like _this_.

He hangs up, and the world has focus again. He knows what to do.


End file.
